


War Is Over If You Want It

by lettered



Series: Until We Meet Again [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Kissing, M/M, Mental Torture, Mindfuck, Not A Happy Ending, Sad, Skinny Steve, Torture, a porntastic fantasy, about him and Steve, and is a fantasy, angsty, bucky in love with skinny steve's body, fic amnesty?, handjobs, idk it's idfic, in the universe of sincerely your pal, it's like a snapshot, most of it takes place in Bucky's head, not a sequel to sincerely your pal, not graphic torture, not physical torture, probably not the idfic you wanted, sort of unfinished, there is in fact very little torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-19
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-24 16:46:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3775999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lettered/pseuds/lettered
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky has fantasies of homecoming.  Ma is soft and Steve is skinny and everything is just what Bucky imagined but nothing like what really happened.  The guilt makes everything worse.</p><p>(Id!fic from the universe of <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/3194165">Sincerely, Your Pal</a>, not a sequel really.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	War Is Over If You Want It

**Author's Note:**

> -This fic is mostly a fairly fluffy homecoming to Steve. There is no explicit torture of any kind, but this doesn't end happy.
> 
> -This fic is the literary equivalent of a sketch or doodle; it doesn't have much beginning or end. Mostly I just wanted to write Bucky getting what he wanted and for that to be a bad thing. Idk folks.
> 
> -This doesn't include Bucky/Steve meeting face-to-face, except in a fantasy. I recognize that people want that in the universe, and thanks for the encouragement. I'm not currently writing that and nor do I have plans to.
> 
> -The beginning was inspired by the 1946 movie, The Best Years of Our Lives. Interesting movie, do recommend.

 

“Focus.”

I ain’t focusin on anything. Not _anything_ —

“Focus.”

But there’s something bout his voice. Something bout his voice . . .

“Focus on the experience you want to have and make that dream a reality.”

The experience I want to have is _off this fuckin_ table—

“Imagine you are sent home from the war,” says the voice. “And everyone you love is there.”

He told me Steve is dead.

“You still have your arm,” says the voice.

He told me Steve is dead, but I still feel it sometimes. That missing limb.

Imagine you are sent home from the war.

And everyone you love is there.

*

I get into a taxi with three other G.I.s, that way we can split the fare. I go to tell the driver Montague Street but for some reason my throat closes up and I can barely breathe. So I just tell ‘em Ma’s address.

We chat in the taxi; the G.I.s are Andy and Carlo. Andy’s just a kid and he hasn’t got a right hand; it’s a hook instead and he shows us he can still light a cigarette. He lives with his parents and he says he has a girl waiting for him; her name is Molly and she seems swell. Carlo’s older and he’s got a wife and four kids; he’s got a restaurant called Grand-ay and his littlest girl is named Rosa. Rosa’s swell and Carlo’s wife is swell and Andy and Carlo are swell. Everyone is swell. 

I just tell ‘em I got a ma and four sisters but my throat’s still closed up. I don’t know why, but then I figure I couldn’t tell ‘em anything bout Steve anyway so I guess that’s just as well. All that stuff I said in those letters—that’s between him and me. He’s been waiting in New York this whole time. I guess he can wait a little longer.

Andy gets off and then Carlo gets off and the taxi’s got to loop back around but then finally I get off. I pay the driver the last of the fare and then there’s Ma’s. It looks just the same.

*

Ma is just the same. Becca’s not the same; she looks older, more adult. Rachel’s taller and so is Ida. Ida’s face is different. I don’t know. But they all _sound_ the same, and I guess I never noticed how sweet they sound, those soft voices, like birds. Only nicer. Used to drive me batty, all that clucking. But I guess when you’ve been gone for a while you miss the way women talk; their voices are just higher is all, but it’s nice. Seems not as gruff. Light. Melodic, you could say.

Ma cries and hugs a lot. She feels like bread—warm and nice-smelling, the soft pillows of her arms, her soft cheeks, the little lines beside her eyes wet like tiny cracks filled with water, the dry cracks that are thirsty, longing for rain. I’ve missed her. I didn’t really know how much until this moment, but I surely missed her.

Becca and Rachel and Ida hug too and they all ask questions, so many questions I just got to laugh.

“When did you get back?”

“How was your journey?”

“Why don’t you come in? Why don’t you sit down?”

“Are you hungry?”

“Are you tired?”

“Are you hurt anywhere?”

“Was it awful?”

“Just this morning,” I say, and “Long,” I say, and “Okay. Okay.”

“Fix him a snack,” says Rachel.

“You fix him a snack,” says Ida.

“You’re such _children_ ,” says Becca. “ _I’ll_ make him a snack.” She leaves the room.

“Did you fly in an aeroplane?” says Ida.

“No,” I say, and put my feet up. “Why would I?”

“Stop asking questions,” says Rachel. “Are you tired?”

“That was a question,” says Ida.

Rachel bites her lip. “I should help Becca,” she says, but she doesn’t leave the room, just stands there looking guilty.

“I’m so glad you’re back safe,” says Ma.

Jeez. It sure is nice to be back here; it all looks the same. I never been from home for so long, and it’s strange the way you forget how it all looks but as soon as you see you remember; you wonder how you ever forgot. On top of that it’s warm and clean and I think of everywhere I’ve been and everything I’ve done, and I wonder whether that was another person who did those things. Maybe it was some bad dream and I never left at all. But then I look around again and everything that’s so familiar feels completely new, and I realize the man that lived here once was a different person. Nothing here is new, ‘cept me. I don’t quite belong.

The nice thing is that it doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter cuz I still know Ma and I know the girls; I know this house and I know that chair and I know that lampshade. It’s still home and I don’t have to think too much bout whether I belong here, not right now. I’ll think bout that some other time maybe. Right now I’m just going to enjoy sitting on a couch and the girls so sweet around me; they smell nice and look nice, real fresh and clean and sweet, and Ma, she looks so happy. So soft and goddamn happy and just so cozy. Ma is cozy, like a blanket that’s been sitting in the sunshine.

They keep asking questions and I keep answering; we go on and on that way. Gee, I could talk and laugh forever, and never think bout one Goddamn thing that’s real.

“Was it awful?” asks Ida at one point.

“Was what?” I say.

“The War,” says Ida.

I give her a great big old smile. “Better than Christmas,” I say.

“What about Steve?” says Rachel.

I guess that’s the other shoe.

“Steve who?” I say, but a knot tightens in my stomach.

Ida clasps her hands, just like some kind of film actress, just like some kind of wide-eyed angel. “He’ll be so glad to see you!”

I got to pretend to be nonchalant, but I don’t know why. They know how I like Steve—well, I guess they don’t know how, but they know that I like Steve. They know he’s my best pal, they know he’s like a brother, more than a brother—they wouldn’t find it strange that I would want to see him; they wouldn’t find it odd at all, but somehow I just can’t get over this strange feeling. 

“James,” Ma is saying.

“Bucky?” That’s Rachel.

“Bucky,” and there’s a clink on the table; Becca’s in front of me with a sandwich on a plate.

“Gee thanks,” I say.

“You were in dreamland,” Ida says.

“Now why would I do that,” I joke. “I’m already here.”

“Oh James,” Ma says. “It’s like a dream to _me_.”

“Don’t say you missed me,” I say. “I bet life was easier without some tough guy around causin’ trouble.”

“ _Steve_ was here,” said Ida.

“Oh,” I say. “You mean Steve _Rogers_. That Steve?”

Becca punches my arm, but only cuz she’s the closest.

When it was a joke everything was easier, but now my throat’s closing up again. I can’t look at any one of them. “He came over?”

“All the time,” says Rachel.

But he ain’t here _now_. “Speaking of which,” I say, “Becca, ain’t you supposed to have a fella?”

For which I get a punch in the arm again.

“Ow! What was that for?”

“Cheek,” says Becca.

“You treat your fella like that?” I say, and rub my arm.

“You should eat,” says Ma, and nudges the plate with the sandwich closer.

“It doesn’t look as good as Army food,” I say and pick it up. “But if you insist.”

“You’re still a joker,” says Rachel.

“Probably wouldn’t recognize him if he wasn’t,” says Becca.

“You eat that right up,” says Ma.

“Are you cold?” says Ida.

“Anything else we can get for you?” says Rachel.

“Well.” I finish chewing and I swallow. “Now you mention it.”

They’re all on tenterhooks. Jeez, Rachel’s even leaning forward, cheeks pink and she’s breathless.

Jeez.

I don’t know how to ask. I said so many Goddamn things to him and after all of it I don’t even know how to fucking ask; I want it so much. I want it too much; I want it too much to ask, and my mouth feels dry.

“Maybe I could have some milk?” I say.

“Milk!” Rachel says and rushes out.

Ida pounces. “Anything else?”

“A thousand dollars?” I say.

“Oh, Buck.” Becca leans in, kisses my cheek. “We missed you!”

“Jeez, I’m eating here,” I say.

“Are you staying here tonight?”

I guess that’s Ma for you. Always cuts right down to the chase. I take a bite of sandwich—hell, I don’t even know what’s in it; it’s just filling up my mouth while I think of things to say. And what’s wrong with me; it’s my ma and sisters. I _want_ to see them; I do. I love them; I love them good and proper but also so much it hurts sometimes; it hurt when I missed Ma and I didn’t know what was happening in Becca’s life, when I read that letter bout her having a fella. It hurt. It actually physically hurt that I wasn’t there to see that he was treating her right; I didn’t even know who he was. And I came here first, didn’t I? I must want to see them.

“Nah,” I say, and put the sandwich down, put the plate beside me. “Figure I’ll drop round and see what that dope Steve is up to.”

Rachel comes with the milk and I take a big old swig.

“You could stay with us a little while,” Ma says.

“Nah,” I say.

“Just a little while,” says Ma.

“You know that Steve. Always up to something.” I put the milk down too and I can’t look at her. “Who knows what he’s got up to when I’ve been away? Best go make sure the place is standing.”

“It’s still standing,” Ida says.

“You know Steve.” I pick up my hat and start turning it. “He wouldn’t say if the ole place burned down.”

“It’s not burned down,” Ida insists.

“How do you know.” I put my hat back and grab the glass of milk, take another great big old gulp.

“We see him all the time,” Rachel says.

“So I heard.” 

“Steve was very good to us,” says Ma.

“Well I know he _pretends_ to be good,” I say. “But really he’s a rascal. Now you mention it . . .”

I put the milk back on the table, pick up my hat again. I can feel them all looking at me and I got to cut this out. I got to take it easy or they’ll all know; fucking everyone will know and I can’t do that to Steve. I got to take it easy, but part of me doesn’t want to leave. A part of me—a great big part—wants to stay right here forever; Becca and Rachel will fetch me things and Ida will ask questions; Ma will look at me with great big eyes and everything is warm. Don’t have to worry bout a thing. Could stay right here forever, and never ever have to look at Steve.

Deal with Steve.

Touch Steve.

Holy Christ I’m getting worked up right here on Ma’s couch; I don’t want to see him; I don’t want to do it; it’s the only thing I want in the whole wide world. Fucking Christ, my hands are shaking. My fucking hands are shaking; I put my hat down on the table.

“Bucky?” Becca says.

I look up, smile real big. “I just thought,” still don’t know what to say, “maybe,” Jesus Christ, “maybe I should . . .” I take a big old breath and it comes all in a rush. “Maybe I should head on over there, see what’s up, you know—just came by to see how you all were; you’re all right as rain—”

“No,” says Ma.

“Oh, not yet,” Becca says.

“You only just got here,” Ida wails, just like a film actress all over again.

Christ. I bite my lip; I don’t even know why I came here in the first place. Should have gone straight to him; didn’t I imply I’d go straight to him, and what happens when he finds out I didn’t come to him? Goddamn it.

“Guess I can stick around a little,” I say.

“Just a little while,” Rachel says.

“Stay the night,” says Ma.

I jump to my feet, grab my hat. “I gotta go.”

“No!” Becca actually wraps her arms around my waist.

“I gotta see Steve.” My own voice sounds funny, like there’s something wrong. Oh God—I want . . . I don’t know what I want. I don’t want to see him. I don’t want to see him at all; I have to though. I just have to. Jesus. Steve.

“Don’t go,” says Becca. “You just got here.”

“You’ll see him later,” Ma says.

“I gotta see him,” I say.

“I’ll go get him,” Rachel says. “He can come over.”

“How bout that?” Becca finally pulls away from me.

“Can he come over, Ma?” Rachel asks.

“Of course he can,” says Ma. “That’s a great idea. Run on over.”

“He off work yet?” Ida says.

“He still working at Gowers?” Well of course he is. Where else would he be? He’d’ve mentioned had he got another job, cuz we’ve been writing . . . we’ve sure been writing, ‘cept not really bout that, have we. In his last letter to me he said . . . well he said . . .

“Still at Gowers,” Becca confirms.

I think he said . . . No, because I saw him in Germany. He was climbing up the side of a tank, the wrong size—too big to be Steve, ‘cept it was Steve—

*

“Focus,” says the voice.

“Yeah, yeah,” I say. “Plenty focused.”

“Focus on the experience you want to have,” says the voice. “You’re sent home from the war, and everyone you love is there.”

And you have your arm.

*

“Well of course he’s still at Gowers,” I say. “Where else would he be?”

“Should be off by now,” Rachel says. 

Ida’s chewing on her nails.

“I’ll go get him,” Rachel says.

“Sure,” I say, and sit back down.

This is better, really. This way I don’t gotta deal with him alone. I mean, I wanna deal with him alone. Lord, do I wanna. Jesus Christ, I get to be alone with Steve; I’ll get to be alone with Steve, Christ Goddamn it. 

Rachel’s already out the door. I stand up again.

“Can I get you anything?” says Ma.

“No,” I say.

“Did you shoot a lot of people?” says Ida.

“Ida!” says Becca.

“I just want to know,” says Ida.

I’m gonna start biting _my_ nails pretty soon.

“James,” says Ma, stands and puts her hand on mine. “Come sit down.”

“You don’t ask questions like that,” Becca’s telling Ida.

“Why not?” says Ida. “It’s a legitimate question!”

I follow Ma back to the couch, pick up the milk. Finish it off, put it down. Ma’s looking so concerned. “Mostly you just walk around, Ida,” I tell her. “You walk around and you get on trucks and you get off trucks; it rains a lot, and you sleep in a tent.”

“Like camping,” Ida says.

“Just like camping,” I tell Ida. “And you make a fire, and you sit around the fire, and everyone tells the most horrible stories they know.”

“Like ghost stories?” Ida says.

“Just like ghost stories,” I say, “but you know in Italy, all the ghosts are real.”

“No, they’re not,” Ida says, but she’s pretty excited bout this. I can tell.

“Uh-huh,” I say. “It’s because there were so many old people there. Ancient Romans, and then those Popes and Borgias; then the Great War and this one too. They just got so many dead people there’s nowhere to put them all in heaven, so they stick ‘em in Rome and Florence and all those other places, and you’ll be sittin there, cooking sausage, and what do you know but one of those ghosts just sits beside you.”

“You’re pulling my leg,” says Ida.

“No,” I say, and I’m gettin going now. I’m really good when I get going; I can shoot the shit for hours and hours, and it’s Ida and she likes it. She always used to like it and she likes it still, even though she’s older now, and Becca’s shaking her head but gazing fondly. Ma’s frowning just a lil but you know what, it’s cuz she suspects that it’s all true and hey, I guess it is. But this just means that I can deal with it; I went through it all and it didn’t hurt me; here I am to tell the tale: ghost stories and camping trips. Not too bad for a year of war.

“If you really met a ghost,” Ida says skeptically, like she’s gonna pull one over on me, “what was his name?”

“Let me tell you bout Burnette,” I say.

*

Thirty minutes in and I’m telling a story that never happened bout Dum-Dum and a cat and Rachel clatters in. All the subtlety of a steam engine that one, but I’m not really thinking bout it. She comes down the hall, and then there he is.

It’s Steve, hands shoved in his pockets and his narrow shoulders, Christ that thin whipcord shape, and still those lips. Those lips are worse than I remember, and Steve’s eyes search the room a moment, looking for me. Then they lock.

I plaster on a big dumb smile and go to hug him—my arm around those shoulders from the side, not front to front. There, that isn’t too conspicuous; I don’t have to touch him too much and as soon as I’m done with it I let him go. 

He doesn’t try to reach for me. Surprised, I guess. Well, he also knows the score.

I smile and ask him how he’s been, how’s the shop, how you holding up, pal.

“Buck,” Steve says, and he reaches for me then.

He hugs me good and proper then and I can’t. Not in front of Ma and the girls, I can’t, and he’s slender but the arms round my neck are strong, and I have to touch. I just have to, but when my hand fits to his lower back it’s like he realizes. He realizes and stiffens up, starts away.

Takes one step back, two, and starts turning pink.

“How you holdin up,” I say again.

Steve just nods and “fine,” licks his lips, “just fine.” Christ in heaven, he’s _nervous_.

Steve _usually_ only gets nervous round girls, and my heart just leaps for joy at that. I’ll show _you_ , Steve. I’ll _give_ you something to be nervous about, and I can’t stop smiling, I just keep chatting. Ida asks me more questions and I chat and chat; I sit down and nudge for Steve to sit down too, and I chat and chat. Becca and Rachel have more questions too, a whole boatload.

Steve doesn’t have any. All he can do is stare.

The way he can’t take his eyes off me is hilarious. 

It’s really fucking funny the way he can’t get enough of me, like I’m a big glass of water and he’s in a desert; I’m a cherry pie and he’s starving. Christ but he looks starving; it’s goddamn outrageous is what it is, the way he looks at me, but part of me just wants to tell him _don’t be so obvious_. Because he is obvious; he told me he was, but no he _really_ is. He looks like a kid left out in the cold and I’m a window to a warm place with a fire and a great big old Christmas turkey and eight glasses of wine. That’s the way he’s looking at me and I never noticed before, that Steve could look like that, so blatant. So hungry.

But I should have known.

Steve is just so straight-forward bout everything.

I stretch out under his eyes. I can’t help it; I _bask_ in it. He wants me. Christ, he _wants_ me, and he’s going to get me. He’s going to get it all, but not just yet; we got a little time. My ma is here and the girls are here so he’s got to wait. He’s got to wait and wait and wait; he can look but he can’t touch, and I know that I look good. I took care to look good because I couldn’t bear the thought of coming home for him worn and not ready. Christ Jesus I am ready. I am so _ready_.

Christ. That Steve.

He keeps looking at me with those hollow hungry eyes and I get even smoother. I get even smoother and Becca asks, “Was it so very hard, Bucky?”

“Nah,” I say and smile. “It was easy.” I look at Steve and wink.

He gets that lil frown between his brows.

Shit. 

Jesus Christ. 

I stretch my legs out further. Cross ‘em at the ankle, , cuz I know he's lookin. God, I love him lookin at me that way, love gettin him worked up. 

“Did you see any of the monuments?” Rachel asks.

So I tell ‘em bout the monuments. I say I saw the Colosseum even though I didn’t, and St. Peter’s Basilica, which I didn’t either. Come to think of it, I didn’t even see Rome. We were pushing toward Rome; we fought at Monte Cassino, but then . . . then . . . I guess something happened then.

They strapped me to a table, I think.

They strapped me down and . . .

“Did you see the David?” Steve asks.

“Who?”

“The David.” Steve is staring at me—not so obvious now, a lil closed up, a lil too serious. Hard to read when he gets that way. “The sculpture, Bucky,” he says, and shoves his hands in his pockets. He wouldn’t sit down next to me when I’d told him to.

“David.” I pull my bottom lip under my teeth, get it good and wet, bite it.

Steve’s eyes don’t leave mine.

“Yeah,” I say. “I saw it.”

Steve frowns at me again. Then he looks at Ida.

Ida’s bout as tall as he is.

“There are two, you know,” Steve tells her. “They made one to put outside where it originally stood. Then they put the original one inside.”

“So the bombs wouldn’t get it,” Ida says.

“No,” says Steve. “They did that before. Because the marble degrades. It’s not the sturdiest kind of marble.”

“Did you eat spaghetti?” Rachel asks me.

“Boy, did he,” Steve says.

Rachel whirls on him. “How do you know?”

Steve looks really innocent. “He wrote me lots of letters. Didn’t he write you?”

Rachel looks mournful. “Not about spaghetti!”

“Well,” says Steve. “His letters to me were really detailed. All about everything he was doing. He was real explicit.”

Steve’s expression is real nice. Goddamn beatific, like a monk that one. The little shit. 

He goes to sit down, opposite of me, looking downright comfortable. “And did he tell you of the music?” he says.

Jesus, Steve.

“What music?” Ida says.

Rachel whirls back on me. “You said you didn’t get much radio.”

“Not on the radio,” says Steve. “Real Italian music. The kind with accordions and mandolins. And the dancing—he told me all about the dancing. All the Italian moves.”

“You never mentioned any dancing,” Rachel says.

That’s cuz I didn’t _see_ any Italian dancing, and I guess if I did I certainly never told _Steve_. Christ, that little shit.

Steve speaks right up, smooth as you please. “I told you, Rachel. He just said a lot to me in his letters; he said all kinds of things. Well, and did he tell you about bout Dum-Dum and his hat?”

“He told us bout Dum-Dum and a cat,” says Ida.

“Who’s Dum-Dum?” Rachel asks, cuz she wasn’t there for that.

“Let me tell you,” Steve says. “I know all about it.”

And Steve starts talking. He tells ‘em all about the 107th, half the things I can’t remember that I told him. He says it all in ways that will not hurt them, leaving out the killing and the danger and leaving in the fun bits—the way that Yo could do round-the-world, the way that he liked licorice.

I stand up; I can’t deal with just _sitting_ there, not while Steve’s being such a shit. I go over to the bookshelf and lean against it, watching.

“Well, but don’t let me take over,” Steve says. He grins nice and easy. “Bucky was the one who was in the war.”

I scowl at him.

“Come on, Bucky,” Steve says. “Did you see the Duomo?”

“What’s a Duomo?” Ida says.

“Well, technically,” says Steve, “it’s any Italian cathedral. But that’s what everyone calls the one in Florence.”

“Did you go to Florence, Bucky?” Rachel asks.

“Sure,” I say darkly, from the corner.

“You never said,” says Becca.

“It has a great big dome,” Steve says. “You can see it in any picture of the skyline. They say Donatello and da Vinci helped make it.”

“Is it pretty?” Ida says.

“They say it’s a feat of architectural genius,” Steve says, then proceeds to wax eloquent on the building of domes in some century or other. 

Steve knows all about this stuff; he took a lot of art classes. And he keeps just shooting the breeze, easy as you please, smiling at the girls and at me and taking everything in stride. Christ. 

Jesus Christ.

I forgot what a shit he was.

 _Two can play at this game_ , he’s saying. _I can make you want me just as much as I want you._

The thing is, Steve’s impatient; he can never keep his cool when someone’s bout to beat him up, but when it comes to things like this he’s a mastermind. He will wait and play you; he will _manipulate_ you cuz he’s a lil bastard and he likes to get his way; he wants his way, and Christ I want him.

I want him sitting there the way he is, the smiling little shit, know-it-all and confident, but still a lil pink around the collar. He gestures with slender hands as he talks, not a care in the world, gettin the girls’ attention like he always does eventually; his eyes are bright. I know what he’s up to. I know exactly what he’s up to and I’m going crazy with it.

I’m going crazy with it.

“We got to go,” I say, pushing off the bookshelf.

“Oh, James, no,” Ma says, but what’s her problem? Even _she_ gets wrapped up in Steve. They all do, if anyone takes the time to listen.

Steve does his absent lil half-smile. The one that looks real innocent; no one but me ever knows he _does that when he’s won_. Christ, he can be so smug when he gets what he wants.

“Not yet,” says Becca.

“It’s gettin’ late,” I say.

“Not that late,” Steve points out.

Christ. Motherfucker.

“I’m tired,” I say.

“Oh, we’ve been so inhospitable!” Ida declares, with her tiny fretting.

“And you’ve been in the War!” Rachels says.

“You could rest here,” says Ma.

My eyes start to slide to Steve, but then they stop. “Nah,” I say. “Best to head on home.”

“Are you sure?” Steve murmurs, and I got no self-control—my eyes dart on over to him then, but Steve is staring at the carpet, so fucking _demur_ , but he’s got on that lil smile, teasing lil twitch of the lips, and I’m gonna kill him.

I’m actually gonna kill him; just wait until I got my _hands_ on him.

Wait’ll I get my hands on him.

“I want to hear bout when you got shot,” says Ida.

“Hush up,” says Becca.

“Yeah. Let’s talk about when you got shot, Bucky,” Steve says. He licks his lips, then looks straight on over at me. 

The smile’s gone away.

Christ Jesus.

Jesus.

“Some other time,” I say gruffly. “Come on, Steve. Time to go.”

“Well, if you insist,” Steve murmurs. His lashes sweep down again and he stands, but he’s smirking now. _Smirking_. Goddamn bastard shit.

“Oh, James,” Ma says.

There’s a lot of tears and hugging before we get out, and Steve stands apart to give me time, quiet, patient. No longer smirking, but not nervous at all now. I meet his eyes over Ma’s shoulder.

He licks his lips again.

I’m gonna die.

*

Finally, finally, finally we get outside and I’m still gonna die; it took forever for Ma to let me go, but finally I’m alone with him and I don’t know what to say. It’s broad daylight and the first time I’ve seen him in over a year, and I can’t think of one goddamn thing to say.

He’s not smirking or anything now, not anything like that; his hands are shoved in his pockets and he walks along beside me on the sidewalk, his sleeve just brushing mine.

I wore my uniform because I’m a soldier and I look good in it; I thought he’d like it, but I feel foolish now beside Steve in his shirtsleeves and suspenders. He just looks so damn . . . real, like memory come to life.

And I still got no idea what to say.

“Hey,” I say finally. 

Steve’s lips quirk. “Hey yourself,” he says, and tosses me a glance.

Fuck me Jesus, Mary, and Jehoshaphat. His bright eyes brush me over, intense blue and then blond lashes sweeping down. I never saw Steve do anything like that, so hot and full of promise.

It rocks me so deep inside it’s sort of hard to walk.

I cough a lil. “Hey,” I say. “You wanna grab something to eat?”

“You’re hungry?” Steve murmurs.

I cough again. “I guess.”

“If you want to,” is all Steve says.

“We could go to a bar,” I say.

“It’s four in the afternoon.”

“Hey,” I say. “I haven’t been to an American bar in ages.”

“We can do anything you want to, Buck,” he says, and looks away.

“But you don’t want to,” I say.

“No.”

His face his angled away. Of course he doesn’t want to. “I guess,” I say, but I don’t know what I guess. “I guess—what do you want to do?” 

“I wanna go back to our apartment.” Steve’s gaze sweeps over me again. “And stay there with you,” he adds. “For quite some time.”

I want to cough again but my mouth is so dry it hurts. “Still a stick in the mud, are you?” I manage.

Steve says nothing. He knows that I’m a liar; I cheat at cards and lie, and Steve knows it. He knows I’m trying to buy time.

He’s willing to let me; he’s just not willing to lie himself.

“We could go see a picture,” I say finally.

“Whatever you want,” Steve murmurs again.

“Jesus, Steve.” I want to hit something.

“I’ll do anything you want to,” Steve says.

“Dammit, Steve,” I say. “Shut up.”

Steve says nothing.

Goddamn it, I’m an asshole. Just—where is that smart aleck who was laughing at me in front of Ma not ten minutes ago? In some ways Steve’s easier to deal with when he’s being a dick than when he gets serious. I shove my hands in my pockets and we walk along.

“Well,” says Steve eventually. “You made your mind up yet?”

“Shut up,” I say again.

Steve gives it half a minute. “We can go to the pictures if you want.”

“I don’t want to go to the pictures.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Alright,” says Steve.

We walk in silence the rest of the way, sunlight pouring down our backs, and my stomach so tight with anticipation it hurts.

His steps slow down when we get to our street, and I wonder whether he’s the one who’s got second thoughts now, feet are cold now it comes to it. Back at Ma’s I would have gloated, but now I’m so tied up with my own nerves I’m not sure how to make it better for him, easier. I don’t know how to do this.

When we get to the door he takes out the key and—and his hands aren’t shaking. I’m taking it easy; I got this, but Steve’s even easier. His hands are just so _slow_ , sliding that key in, the slide-grind of metal, the slow turn of the lock until it clicks. Then Steve steps inside, reaches up—he’s flicking on the light. 

I hesitate for just one moment, then step on through the door.

He’s got the door closed behind me and me up against it in a second flat. I wouldn’t’ve said he’s strong enough to do it with all my extra Army muscle, but then I can’t think anymore as he’s kissing me.

He’s kissing me hard and with abandon, real wet and kind of messy—Lord, Steve does not know how to kiss.

Shit.

Jesus.

Fuck.

Steve.

Steve _kissing_ me, his lips all over mine, biting at me, his hands tugging at my neck and ears, his tongue forced right in my mouth—oh God.

Steve.

It’s Steve and he’s kissing me.

I push him away.

“Bucky,” he gasps, and his lips are shiny red.

Jesus.

He licks his lips and looks me over, then “Buck,” and he’s kissing me again, all tongue and hands and teeth.

Christ.

Christ, but he’s a frenzy, a skinny tornado I’m caught up in, going at me like and attack of long lean limbs and frantic wet lips, Jesus, Steve. Jesus.

I get a good grip on his shoulders and pull him back.

Try to catch my breath.

He presses his red lips together, blue eyes slowly growing bigger. Then at last he falters a step back. “Buck?” he says, and sounds unsure.

Christ, that’s not what I meant, and I can’t stand to have him think that I—

“Just,” I say, and reach for him.

He comes to me just like a magnet; I got to hold his face to keep him still and I lick his lips.

Just like I always dreamed. I lick his lips, Jesus Christ Steve’s lips, that smartass mouth he uses to talk back and give a lotta lip and smile, hot damn that smile he does when he’s being self-effacing and he thinks that no one’s watching, then that smirk he gets when he’s a sarcastic little bastard. Steve. Christ, that’s my Steve, and he’s right here.

I sweep my tongue in between those lips.

He answers with his tongue against my own, pushing back.

I pull away. “Please, just,” I say. My voice is shaking, and I got to lick his lips again. “Slower,” I say, and sweep inside again.

He makes a lil noise and this is what I wanted, just a chance to kiss him, taste him, taste every part of him. He moans a lil and lets me, finally lets me; I turn us so he’s against the door and I lick his tongue a lil, but when he responds I slip away.

These are the things I like to do. I like to tease; I like to savor; I need him sweet and slow cuz otherwise I’m gonna lose my mind. I’m gonna lose my mind right now, just over kissing him.

He’s making these soft lil noises at everything I do; it’s exactly what I wanted, the way his mouth opens a lil more, just a lil more, letting me inside and making lil moans and Steve he’s so hot and warm and wet inside; I can’t stand it. I can’t stand this teasing, hesitant lil explorations—

You can kiss me now, Steve. Now, Steve. Just kiss me.

I slide my tongue along his, hot and full and deeper now and then he gets the picture. He pushes back now but now it’s not an attack; it’s full and hot and I can feel him in me, in my mouth but also down my throat, filling up my heart so big with blood that’s pounding, so hot I’m sweating; I can feel him farther down and oh Jesus Christ, it’s Steve. It’s my Steve and I finally realize my hands are on his shoulders.

My hands are trembling on his shoulders and I can slide them down his back, his slender back so strong and lean and hard, and then I can—I could—I can—I could touch his ass; I want to, but then his lean thigh is pressed between mine and he’s moaning. I can feel him moaning in my mouth, and I can feel his cock hard against my leg.

His cock.

Jesus, Steve’s cock.

His cock his cock his cock and it strikes me suddenly that Steve is another boy.

I pull back.

Steve takes his thigh out from between my legs, wraps his hand around my neck, and hugs me hard. “Jesus, Buck,” he says.

My arms are already around him, on his back, so I tighten them up too, hug back.

But all I can really think is I still want to touch his ass.

Jesus.

Steve’s ass.

Steve’s narrow backside, muscular but spare, just that lil round curve you wouldn’t even notice if you weren’t looking but I looked. I looked at it; I noticed it. I always noticed Steve, every curve and angle he’s got, every shadow, every shining piece of him.

Jesus on a cross I do love him. I do. My chest hurts with it, I love him so.

“You’re back,” Steve’s says.

Of course I’m back. Where else would I—

Steve hugs me harder. “I missed you.”

Oh.

Oh, I get it. 

This is a sweet moment we’re having here.

A sentimental moment.

I can see the angle of his neck, the turn of his jaw. That sweep of dirty-yellow hair, gentle but short around his ears.

God.

God, I wanna taste it. 

I wanna kiss, so gentle—and I do, a gentle kiss right near his ear, his sideburns, lil wisps of hair. “Did you,” I murmur.

“Yeah,” Steve starts to say, but I keep kissing.

I keep kissing down and down around that ear to the corner of his jaw. I scrape my teeth on it. “Did you miss me?” I say.

“Jesus,” Steve says, and that’s just what I was looking for; I scrape it with my teeth again, then suck, find that little sweet spot at the corner of his jaw just behind his ear and kiss and suck and make him crazy.

He’s going crazy with it, clutching my coat.

“Bucky,” he says, and tugs.

“Hmm?” I say, and I’m sucking on his skin. I’m sucking on Steve’s skin, just like I always dreamed.

“Take this stupid hat off,” Steve says, and knocks it off.

“Hmm,” I say again, and start kissing down his throat.

“Jesus,” Steve says, and buries his fingers in my hair.

He’s got his fingers in my hair, right against my scalp holding me down against his throat, and I remember how he said he wanted this. He said he wanted to put his hands in my hair and tug; I know he likes it. He loves my hair for some reason; he told me so, one night when we were—

Well, we were . . . I guess we were . . .

I don’t know when that was. I don’t know, because—

Because he never put his hands in my hair this way before because I ain’t been home since the war so I ain’t seen him; I’m sure I haven’t seen him. I haven’t seen him. He’s been safe at home.

Everyone I love is there.

I pull away from his mouth, got to catch my breath, and he’s tugging at my coat.

Yeah, get it off. This is a good idea; this is a great idea, getting out of my coat. His fingers are at my buttons and I love watching his hands work. I remember how his coordination ain’t so great; he can’t do things like catch a ball or throw a punch worth a damn, but hot damn can he hold a pencil, smudge pastels. He was made for little things, fine things, never all those big things he tried to do. 

But I loved him for the big things he always tried to do.

We get it unbuttoned and I start to take it off. As soon as my arms aren’t free ‘cause my coat’s half off, his hands go down to my belt buckle.

Jesus. “Jesus,” I say, quickly struggle out of the coat and pull his hands away. “Just hold on.”

Steve licks his lips, then looks back up at me. “I’ve held on forever,” he says, but then he kisses me again, and I forget to feel bad bout how long I took.

Christ. Steve. 

I hook my thumb under one of his suspenders, tug. He pulls his hands off me so I can get the suspender off; then I do the other side. He gets that off too but then he’s back to kissing me, his tongue and teeth and oh God Steve is kissing me. We’re kissing.

He swallows up my shiver, scrapes his teeth down against my cheek, my jaw. His hands go to the front of my pants again.

“Don’t you wanna?” he says, breathless, but just a lil bit of challenge.

God, that’s Steve for ya.

A thrill goes through me, shudders up my spine and bubbles up my throat. I feel like I'm shaking all over; this is how come I went to Ma's instead of coming here. I'm afraid I'll burst out of my skin, and what if I don't like it? What if we don't like it? What if I don't do the right thing; I hurt him or now that I'm a queer, the world finds out and we get kicked to shit? I can't stand it, bein this close to him. I'm terrified of him. I'm terrified of me.

But neither one of us has ever put much stock in fear. That's a plunging market; we like to play high risk.

“Yeah,” I say. "I wanna." I kiss him, then I push him. He stumbles back a lil, face going hotter than before, then I’m kissing him again, walking him back, manhandling him.

Steve must realize I’m pushing him toward my bed. We never had enough for two bedrooms; it was just in the corner of the main room with some sheets tacked around it. The sheets have been taken down I see, but the bed is still there, and I don’t care. I want to make love in the living room; I don’t care. I want it in my bed, and Steve follows me for a moment. My kisses are so deep he’s sinking under me, then he gives a lil shove back.

Gets his arms round my neck and kisses back, fierce and hard. He’s pushing me and I let him; it’s where I wanna go. When my knees hit the back of the bed he pushes me down and for a moment I’m just sitting there. He’s standing tough and lean between my legs, hands fisted in my hair—hard, pulling back my head so he can lean down and kiss me.

Lean down and kiss me. Lean down and kiss me. Steve’s so much shorter than me I’ll be the one leaning down most of the time. I’ll lean down a lot.

But somehow that’s not what I remember; I remember . . .

But Steve’s fist jerks in my hair and I’m back with him; I’m back with him between my legs and his hands yanking in my hair, tight and desperate. Finally he rips his mouth from mine. For a moment he just stares at me, his face red and his own hair mussed. His eyes are blazing and he looks exactly like he does in the middle of a fight, when he’s deciding he’s not gonna live through it but sure will go out in a blaze of glory. You’re a dumbass, Steve, but oh God that gaze pinned on me when he thinks he’s gonna—

What’s he think he’s gonna do?

Is he gonna fuck me?

Jesus Christ, is he gonna push me down, get on top, go to work on me like I ain’t got a choice in the matter; is that what he’s gonna do? Cuz that’s how he looks right now and I wouldn’t mind. I wouldn’t mind, ‘cept it’s not exactly what I planned—

He pushes me back into the bed and gets on top of me.

“Steve,” I say, and get my hands on his shirt. Want it unbuttoned—

His hands go for my pants again but it’s an awkward angle. We’re in a bad position for what he wants, my feet danglin’ off the side, and I’m still bigger ‘n he is. I scoot back, pull him with me, push him down so his head’s ‘least half on the pillow and I get on top, go back to his shirt.

“Buck,” he gasps, wigglin under me, getting his hands back on my pants.

“Jesus,” I can’t help but breathe; it’s cuz of how obsessed with this he is, can’t seem to keep his hands away from the promise of my cock. Knew he wanted it, but guess I didn’t know how _bad—_

“Bucky,” Steve says again, a lil frustrated—the way he gets, bit of a whine, bit of a beg, bit of reprimand.

But then he’s got my pants open and his hand’s inside findin my underwear and it’s—

It’s Steve’s hand brushin my dick.

“Jesus.” My hips jerk.

“Yeah.” Steve licks his lips. Hand growing certain now it’s found what it wants, it presses up against my dick and slowly palms.

“Christ.” My voice is a lil high, and I ain’t got time for this.

I finally finish unbuttoning his shirt and pull him up—not very nicely, jerk his arm so his hand gets yanked from my pants so I can get this sleeve off. Forgot the cuff, so Steve’s all tangled up, but he doesn’t seem to care, just says, “You stupid bastard,” and kisses my neck. The kiss is mostly teeth.

I get the cuff unbuttoned, that sleeve off, then what does his free hand do when I’m workin on the other cuff but slink down to my pants again. “You’re gonna kill me,” I mutter.

“Do you like it?” he whispers, wet and warm right by my ear and I shudder; I shudder and thrust right in his hand, just the way he wanted me to.

Christ, I’ll do anything he wants me to.

The heel of his hand presses against my cock. “You like that?” he whispers.

“Dammit, Steve.” I finally got the other button and I pull the other side of his shirt off. He’s got an undershirt underneath but I’ve done enough, I think; I just gotta—

Pull his hand out of my pants, push him down and turn him over. He struggles a bit, but I say, “Please, I just wanna.” I get my hand on the hem of that undershirt and pull up.

Expose his back.

Steve goes still.

Jesus.

Christ Jesus. It’s better than I dreamed, that back—those skinny, narrow shoulder blades. I don’t know how to say I like ‘em without sounding . . . I . . .

Steve, he ain’t a girl. I know he ain’t a girl and I don’t want him to be. I like those shoulder blades cuz they look delicate, wing-like, but I don’t mean I want him to be girly or feminine or childlike. I want him to be _Steve_ , and this is Steve to me, someone who don’t look like he could kick your ass, someone who is all wiry strength knit up against fragile bones, someone who looks like he could break but never will. He never will, and Heaven knows that men and fever and work and jobs and money and God have tried. They’ve all tried and Steve just comes up swinging.

Lord he comes up swinging but just look at that knobbly spine, look at how he’s got such narrow shoulders but there’s still room for him to narrow under his ribcage; there’s still room and it’s a subtle but definite curve, and look at the small of his back, how he really ain’t got the body fat for his ass to swell into that gentle curve but it does. Just how he’s made, I guess, and Christ Almighty but do I love the way he’s made.

Guess I been quiet for a while cuz Steve finally turns his head, looks back over his shoulder. “It’s alright, Buck.” His face is pinker than I ever seen it, makes his bright hair stand out. His eyes are hot, and he licks his lips. “You can kiss it if you want to.”

I look back to his shoulders, the thin white undershirt I’m holdin bunched up at his neck.

“Like you said in that letter,” Steve says. “You can kiss it. I don’t think that’s strange.”

He arches up a lil, hand brushin mine as he—he’s gettin a hold of that undershirt, and after a moment I get what he’s doin’. He’s helpin me get it off of him and we get it off, pull it over his head and then he lays back down, side of his resting on his hands, elbows out to either side.

He’s just lyin there for me, waitin for me.

“Sweetheart.” My voice is all choked up; I don’t know why.

I lean down, kiss the nape of his neck. He’s got a lil knob there. Christ. Christ, I love it; I love that knob and I didn’t even know I loved it, wanna kiss it and lick it; I wish I could eat it up. I wish I could eat all of him up, but instead I just scrape my teeth over it, real gentle. “Sweetheart,” I say again.

I can hear Steve suck in a breath. “You can do anything you want to me,” he says.

I know.

I know, honey; I know. You told me in your letters but when it’s real it’s different; it’s different but it’s exactly how I imagined. I press my lips down that bony spine, each vertebra. Trace the line of those shoulder blades with my thumb; my fingers are rough, but he’s smooth. So smooth, but not soft; he’s all hard lines; when I press in with my thumb there’s no give at all.

I dreamed of this. I dreamed of it so often. There was that time he strained a muscle in his back (gettin whaled on, cuz he’s an idiot) and there was this cream the doc gave him, and I had to rub it in. I had to touch him then, had to trace these lines, had to smooth it all over him and I hated it. I hated doin it, hated seein him, hated how I got to look and touch but not the way I wanted, not a bit the way I wanted. It was so clinical; I wasn’t supposed to keep lookin, my hands weren’t meant to linger. I was just supposed to smear it on and—and sometimes I did it so fast and hard and got so mad bout it that I knew Steve he thought I resented it, thought I didn’t want to do it for him, thought he was a bother. Thought I was annoyed or impatient or worst of all repulsed, repulsed by what he thinks of as his measly body, his weak constitution, his fragile flesh.

God.

God. _Repulsed_. Oh, Steve.

I've got to taste, got to get my mouth on those lines and of course his shoulders taste no different than the rest of him, but they're everything to me. It’s everything to me, gettin to taste that flesh, trace those bones and let him know. Let him know that he’s so beautiful to me. Oh Lord, he is so beautiful; this is your loveliest creation, this right here. There’s nothing finer than this.

My tongue’s tracin those shoulder blades and Steve, he shivers under me. I get my hand pressin down in the small of his back and then I’m kissing his spine again, movin on down. Down and down, then I’m there—right in the small of his back, my mouth givin lil kisses down into that shallow, sweet lil curve.

Gosh, I do love that lil curve, that dip just before his rump, and then I gotta . . . I guess I gotta . . .

I gotta do it; I move my hand over that other curve, the slight slope of his ass over his pants and Steve lets out a lil sigh.

That’s right, honey.

I want him to do it again. 

So I rub my hand over it again, just a nice smooth stroke from the top of his ass then down over it to his thighs. Then I got to do it again because even though that ass is spare and tough with muscle it’s just bout the softest part of Steve, and I want to stroke and touch while my heart beats harder at the thought of what’s underneath those pants. God, my mouth is watering; I want that bare skin but I’m afraid; I ain’t never . . .

Steve lifts up under my hand.

Christ.

Christ, he lifts his hips then grinds down into the bed.

“Come _on_ , Buck,” he says.

My cock is so hard I can’t even think. I can’t even—I stroke him again just to see if he’ll keep doin it—thrustin into the mattress, Oh Jesus—

Instead he turns over, pulls my face down and then his hand is at my pants again.

“Yeah,” I say. “Yeah,” even though this isn’t what I wanted; I wanted to peel his pants down and go real slow, keep goin slow—

“C’mon,” says Steve. “C’mon.”

Steve’s hand is in my underwear, brushin skin to skin; he’s touchin my cock for the first time and oh God, oh God, I’m gonna—

“Please,” I hear myself say. “Please, just let me—” I’m tryin to get his pants undone. If he’s got to touch well then, I guess I gotta too; it wasn’t what I planned but honey I am overwhelmed with want and all I can think is if he’s touchin me then I got to touch him too.

I don’t know what I’m doing here.

I don’t know what I’m doing; I never opened another man’s pants before. You’d think it’d be just like a woman but it’s not, because there’s his cock, and it’s not like touching myself, cuz the angle’s wrong. And his cock is hard in his underwear but I can’t quite—I need to get down in there, which means his pants need to be farther down, and Steve’s no help cuz of the things his hand is doing on my own cock.

He’s got his fingers round the base and he’s pulling his fist up, one long stroke, then he goes back and does it again.

“Please,” I get out, and I can feel a wet bubble in my throat, just like a sob. 

I get his pants down enough, then his underwear, but I don’t . . .

I don’t know how to touch him. I want to touch him. 

My fingers brush his dick and that’s the first time. The first time I ever—

And Steve has done this before.

I remember suddenly, like a crash, and I’m gonna come with his hand on me and I won’t get to make him feel the way I love him; I’m so in love with him. “I love you,” I say, and didn’t mean to make the words aloud.

“Bucky,” Steve says, and takes my hand.

He takes my fingers and folds them round his cock, and with him steadyin my shaking hand I can stroke him the way I want; he guides me.

“Gosh,” Steve breathes, and I wanna make him say more than gosh. That Steve can have quite a mouth on him, if you get him in a mood, and I want him in that mood.

I stroke harder, and for the first time his hand falters on my own dick, and the fingernails on his other hand dig hard into the back of my own hand, stroking Steve’s cock.

“ _Gosh,_ ” Steve says again, and throws his head back. 

His whole pale throat is stained pink. I stroke him harder.

“God _damn_ ,” he says, and thrusts into my hand, still held by his.

That’s right. Like that. “Just like that, honey,” I say.

Steve makes a hard, low sound and his hand tightens on my cock. It does nothing except that, just tighten, so I put my own hand down to cover his, just like his hand’s coverin mine on his own cock.

And then we go for another stroke, and his hand’s on mine, guiding it on his cock on my hand’s on his, guiding it on mine, showin each other how to do it and he’s thrustin up into my hand.

“God _damn_ ,” he says again, and spreads his legs.

I don’t know, there’s something bout that—Steve swearin, spreadin his legs like some kind of . . . I guess I don’t know what, but it gets to me, and I line myself up with him so our tangled hands are pressed against his thigh and I’m thrustin up against his hip, and all the sudden I can’t stop talkin.

“Like that,” I say, “Steve, just like that. I love you.” And I kiss him. “I just love you,” I say, “I always loved you, did you know that. Christ, you feel so good, like I knew you would feel.” I kiss him again. “I love your cock; I love your hand on my cock, feels so good—”

“Bucky—” Steve’s voice is high, now, and tight.

“I’m gonna get you to come,” I tell him. “Gonna get you to come so hard, all over my hand and I’m gonna come on you, do you like that; tell me whether you like that—”

“ _Bucky_.” Steve’s strugglin for breath.

“You got to breathe,” I tell him. “C’mon, honey, take a big ole breath—” But I keep rocking into him, and our hands are goin, and he’s breathin so hard—

“Bu-Bucky—”

“C’mon sweetheart,” I say to him. “Why don’t you just come; just come for me.”

Steve goes still.

He arches, then he comes, and it’s beautiful. It’s so beautiful, the curve of his body, the red flush pushing hard up all over under his skin, the wide-eyed, breathless exclamation. And there’s warmth pooling in my hand; I moved my hand up and caught it. I caught it all, and I don’t know whether I thought bout it. Don’t know whether I meant to. But I’ve got his come in my hand and I _like_ it, that hot evidence of his desire; it’s filthy and gonna be sticky but I like it. I wanna smear it all over us.

The thought makes me rock, push myself and my own cock against his hip. Jesus, Steve’s hip, and it was like for a moment I forgot bout my own cock, forgot bout my own need because it doesn’t matter. It just doesn’t matter, cuz I can get it any old way. I can get it any way, and I’m gonna—I’m gonna, cuz I’m pushing against Steve’s hip sort of like a hungry animal but I don’t care; Steve’s hand is still round my cock—not quite gripping, but I’m pushing into it anyway.

God, Steve’s hand, Steve’s body, Steve turning to look at me with hot, heavy eyes and smiling, that crooked lil smile as he looks at me then kisses me and says, “Now you gotta.”

“Steve,” I say.

Then Steve, that dirty lil bastard, he leans right into my ear and whispers, “Lose it all over me, Buck,” and I do.

I white out and I come, and I can’t think I’m so hot. I’m so alive. I’m so in love with him I wanna be this high forever.

I get it on his skin, his hand, his hip; I don’t know how but I get some on his chest.

Then I come down, and that’s just as good; it’s better in some ways cuz I can hear him, his breath rattlin in his chest; I can smell him, hot skin and sex and sweat; I can see him and he’s beautiful. Christ, he’s beautiful, and I press deeper against him, the way I’m lined up alongside him, both our dirty hands mashed up between us. I love you, Steve.

I think I got fodder for beatin myself off for the next three years, just thinkin bout him leanin in like that and sayin, _lose it all over me_.

God.

God.

Finally startin to lose that feeling, that sweet, drugged-up feeling, I realize I’m still in my uniform and I got it dirty, and Steve’s still in his pants. We’re both still in our shoes. 

I didn’t imagine it this way; it was slower and Steve was moaning more, out of his mind with how much I’m in love with him, out of his mind with how much I want to give to him. But somehow this was better, the way neither of us could control it, the way he’s smilin’ now, drowsy like he’s drunk.

“Worth the wait, I reckon,” says Steve.

“You reckon?” I’m tryin to tease but mostly too tired.

“Well, we got time to work on it,” Steve goes on.

“Christ,” I say, “you’re a little shit.”

“Well, I know you wanted to see a film instead.” 

“Shut up, Steve.”

“We can still go if you want.” Steve’s voice is goddamn _bright_. “I thought we could do some stuff—remember that letter you sent where you told me to get the Vaseline and put my fingers inside me and pretend it was you? I thought we could do that. But if you really want to go see a film, Bucky . . .”

I crack an eye open. “Well, what’s playing?”

Steve rolls his eyes. “I can’t believe you went to your Ma’s.”

“I missed her! I’m a good son. Is that so wrong?”

Steve looks away. “I just thought maybe I dreamed those letters.”

My hand is still near his cock, still filthy. Not caring, I flatten it out, stroke it up his stomach, his chest. I’m gettin him dirty everywhere, but now I think bout it I guess that’s part of the point. “You didn’t dream ‘em.”

“But what about mine?” says Steve.

“What about yours?”

“Mine,” says Steve. “The letters I sent you. Didn't you read 'em?"

"Course I read 'em."

"But what about all those things I told you about me?" Steve says. "About what was happening with me. I'm not the same as when you left. Life goes on, remember?"

"I remember," I say. "I know you're not the same. I know you changed, Steve."

"It's not what you imagined, is it." Steve seems put out bout it. "I didn't fit that image you kept in your head, did I."

"I did the best I could," I say.

"But what about my letters? The ones where I told you—I got big and strong.”

I don’t remember any letters like that. Just some ones where he said he gained a lil weight, some ones where he said he looked different—but none of ‘em made sense. I mean, how was I to know—

“The ones where I told you I’m famous now.” Steve pushes at me a lil, gets some space between us. “Where I told you I’m not overlooked and ignored any more,” he says. “The ones where I said it’s not just you who can see the value in me. Everyone can see it. Everyone knows exactly who I am now; they hear about it on the radio, read about it in the papers.”

“But you didn’t tell me,” I say, starting to sit up.

“See?” says Steve, and he’s holding up a newspaper. “I don’t need you anymore. I’m a hero; don’t you understand? I don’t need you to protect me. I don’t need you to save me anymore. I got everything I ever wanted; do you understand?”

“But—”

“I _tried_ to tell you,” Steve is saying, and he’s enormous. He’s six foot and two hundred twenty pounds of muscle, naked and gleaming like fresh churned cream. “I tried to tell you in my letters, but you read what you wanted to read, didn’t you? You didn’t pay attention at all.”

“I paid attention.” I feel small, and I remember that our come is on us; I’m small and dirty—

“Oh, you read the letters,” says Steve, “but you couldn’t imagine it. You couldn’t put yourself in my place, could you? You said you loved me, but in the back of your mind, I was little, wasn’t I? Skinny. Pathetic. Someone you got to take care of.”

“No.”

Steve’s in uniform, and he looks better than any recruitment poster ever painted. He looks better than any painting ever painted. He looks better than David; this sculpture was crafted centuries later, with finer tools, chemicals and lasers. “Bet that made you feel big,” Steve says, and he’s got on that lil smile, the absent, innocent half-smile. “You felt big, didn’t you? In control. You got to be the strongest, the toughest, the best. Isn’t that what you always wanted?”

I can’t seem to get off the bed. “You’re not Steve,” I say.

“Do you think that’s why I died?” Steve says. “Because you couldn’t love me anymore, once I became better than you?”

“I loved you,” I say. “Steve, I still love you . . .”

“All because of that relentless need to be in control,” said Steve.

“I didn’t." I'm strapped down to the bed. “I loved him. I loved him, even though he wasn’t . . .”

“I wasn’t what you wanted,” Steve says sadly, and those words are real.

He said them to me the first time we made love.

The first time we made love was in London.

In London.

In a cheap room at some headquarters in an unfamiliar bed with unfamiliar sheets and he said to me, he said, “I wasn’t what you wanted,” and I tried to correct him. I tried to tell him it wasn’t true, but my body couldn’t lie. I couldn’t make it lie, and he knew. 

He knew.

“I can make your body do anything I want,” says Steve.

Is it Steve? I can’t tell.

“Don’t you see now, Bucky?” says Steve. “I’m the one who will protect you now. _I'll_ take care of you."

"I don't need . . ." But I remember it. Remember feeling powerless. Useless. Two breaths smaller than him and all the sudden I can't convince myself I'm what he needs; he could have anyone he wanted. And I know he wants me. I know it because he says it and I believe him; I trust him.

But knowing and believing aren't the same as _feeling_ it, deep down in your gut. That's where desire lives as well.

"You're not the hero any more," says Steve.

He was always better than me. That was why I loved him. 

"Now I'm the convincer," says Steve. "I'm the one in control.”

*

“Focus on the experience you want to have," says the voice. "Make that dream a reality."

So I focus.

I don’t have an arm.

There is no one I love.

**Author's Note:**

> If you like you can reblog it [here](http://letteredlettered.tumblr.com/post/116791262499/the-war-is-over-if-you-want-it)


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